A Scene in the Corridor

There were certain hours in the long,

marble-spined corridors of Lady Blackwell’s Academy when the air itself seemed to grow heavier, scented with perfume and secrets. The mid-morning hush carried a tension

peculiar to places where power passed not through rules, but through legacy and

inheritance, and through the girls who had been taught, often without words, that beauty was a currency only outmatched by blood.

Cassidy walked slowly, books pressed to her chest like a shield. She wore her uniform with a kind of unconscious grace—blazer fitted just right, pleated skirt brushing the tops of

polished shoes. Her hair gleamed gold under the chandelier lights, a crown she never asked for. At her side, Lydia moved quieter, her steps soft, but her presence undeniable. Her dark, coiled hair framed a face that turned heads not just for its loveliness, but for the sharp

intelligence that flickered in her eyes.

Then came Suzana.

Suzana was the kind of girl who seemed made of steel and sugar—harsh where it counted, sweet where it gained her something. Her family was old money, but not old enough. Her ambition was louder than her manners, her charm conditional. She walked flanked by two of her ever-present girls, their laughter too loud, their skirts just a little too short, as if

rebellion could be tailored.

“There you are,” Suzana said, her voice all syrup. She stepped directly into Cassidy’s path with a smile stretched too wide to be sincere. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Cassidy’s expression remained polite, but

Lydia saw the slight tightening around her eyes.

“Oh? Why?”

Suzana tilted her head in mock innocence. “Well, you know the Rozzit Ball is in three weeks. And you’ll be attending, of course.

I mean—being Callum’s sister and all…”

Lydia’s brow arched slightly, sensing the

underlying venom wrapped in velvet.

Suzana pressed on, her tone high and casual. “I was thinking… it would be so lovely to sit near him. Maybe you could help me secure a spot at his table? You know… just slip my name in. You’d be doing everyone a favor. He’s so private, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a

familiar face nearby.”

Cassidy’s smile faltered. “I don’t think—”

Suzana leaned in slightly, her voice sharpening. “You don’t think? Come now,

Cassidy. I mean… you do know people only

tolerate you because of him, right?”

The corridor stilled.

Cassidy blinked, color rising to her cheeks. Suzana’s tone had dropped its pretense. Her voice now was cold, clinical. Cruel.

“I mean, if your darling mother hadn’t wormed her way into Mr. D’Aramitz’s bed, you’d

probably still be scraping your knees in some countryside convent.”

The words landed like slaps. A hush fell around them—students pausing mid-step, turning, watching.

Cassidy’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Lydia saw the way her fingers clenched around her books, how her bottom lip quivered even though she fought to keep it still.

And Lydia stepped forward.

Unapologetic. Regal.

“Funny,” Lydia said, her voice calm and rich, like the slow unspooling of silk. “You speak of mothers and crawling into beds, but isn’t that exactly what you’ve been trying to do with Callum? I’ve seen the way you follow him around like a lost pet.”

Suzana’s eyes narrowed, fury flickering

beneath thick mascara.

“You act like you own the place,” Suzana hissed.

“No,” Lydia said, smiling. “But I don’t beg for scraps either.”

Gasps fluttered like moths from the bystanders. Suzana took a step back, her face frozen, and in that moment Lydia looked more than just brave—she looked untouchable.

Her eyes gleamed, her chin high. There was no arrogance in her stance, only fire and poise.

“I don’t think Callum would entertain someone who doesn’t even know how to be decent,”

Lydia added, her gaze unwavering. “He may not say much, but I doubt he’s blind.”

Suzana’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. Her face burned red, then pale, then red again. She turned on her heel,

stalking off with her girls trailing behind her like broken shadows.

The corridor exhaled.

Cassidy stood still, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Lydia…” she said softly, her voice thick. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know,” Lydia replied. “But I wanted to.”

Cassidy blinked fast, a tear escaping before she could stop it. She wiped it away quickly, but her smile trembled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And from the far end of the corridor—leaning casually against a doorway, half-shrouded in shadow—stood Callum D’Aramitz.

He had arrived moments before Suzana’s

venom curdled the air, unseen by most, and had remained, arms folded, watching.

Something had shifted in his face—not the usual disdain, not even the careful mask he wore like a second skin. There was heat there. Curiosity. Something sharper, darker.

He hadn’t expected it—Lydia.

The girl who’d dared talk back. The girl who stood with her spine straight and eyes steady. Who didn’t care who he was but had

somehow made his pulse stir like she did.

And in that moment, Lydia became more than just the girl from the art room.

She became unforgettable.

That Afternoon, In the Garden

The garden behind Lady Blackwell’s Academy was one of those places that seemed plucked from a time that no longer existed—carved stone benches beneath ivy-draped arches,

roses that bloomed in regal purples and blood reds, and a fountain that whispered rather than gushed. It was a quiet place, usually avoided by girls who preferred noise and

visibility. But that afternoon, it held two girls who had seen enough of both.

Cassidy sat curled on the edge of a stone bench, her knees pulled close to her chest, her blonde hair undone from its usual braid and spilling around her shoulders like threads of soft light. She had barely spoken since the hallway confrontation—her usual brightness dimmed into something quieter. Not sadness, exactly, but reflection. Hurt held close to the chest.

Lydia sat beside her, legs crossed, back straight. She didn’t push, didn’t speak too soon. She had learned, long ago, that silence could be a kindness.

“People say awful things sometimes,” Cassidy said finally, her voice small, like it was afraid of shattering. “And you think it shouldn’t matter because you know it’s not true, but then it still… lingers.”

Lydia turned to her. “It does. But it doesn’t

define you.”

Cassidy laughed, a short, brittle sound. “I’ve spent my whole life pretending it doesn’t

bother me. That the whispers about my mum, about how she married into the D’Aramitz name, that they were just noise.

But sometimes I feel like I’m living in someone else’s story. Like I was just added in.”

“You weren’t,” Lydia said, her tone warm but firm. “You are the story. They just can’t stand that it’s not theirs.”

Cassidy looked at her then, really looked, and Lydia met her gaze without flinching. There was no pity in Lydia’s face. No performance of compassion. Just presence.

Real and grounding.

Cassidy exhaled, some of the tension in her shoulders finally releasing.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Lydia gave a small shrug, smiling. “Suzana had it coming.”

“No, I mean… thank you for seeing me. For not needing anything from me to be my friend. Most girls here only talk to me because of

Callum. Or because they think I can get them invited to balls or into the inner circle. But you… you just talk to me.”

“You’re easy to talk to,” Lydia said, and they both laughed—softly, this time, not brittle, but full.

For a while, they sat like that, in a comfortable silence broken only by the chirping of birds and the low burble of the fountain. The garden, with its shade and shadows, seemed to hold their conversation like a secret.

Then Cassidy turned to her, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Want to know something even more embarrassing?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Always.”

Cassidy leaned in, her cheeks turning pink.

“I think I have a crush on Maxwell.”

Lydia blinked. “Maxwell? As in the one who never buttons his blazer and always quotes poetry like he invented it?”

Cassidy giggled. “Yes! He’s… I don’t know.

Kind of ridiculous, but in a charming way?”

Lydia laughed. “He’s Callum’s friend, isn’t he?”

Cassidy groaned. “I know, I know. But it’s not like I want to like him. He just… smiles at me sometimes in this way that makes me forget my own name.”

“Well,” Lydia teased, nudging her, “at least he’s not Suzana’s type. You might have a shot.”

Cassidy burst into laughter, leaning her head on Lydia’s shoulder. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest,” Lydia replied, her smile softening.

In that moment, surrounded by old stone and whispering leaves, they were just two girls—no titles, no lineages, no legacies pressed into their backs. Just Cassidy and Lydia, learning how to trust, how to laugh again, how to heal in each other’s company.

The garden didn’t applaud. The roses didn’t bloom brighter. But something important

settled between them.

Something like sisterhood.

Something like home.

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